


The Bookshop Cat

by laziestgirlintown



Category: Black Books (TV), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale reading to Crowley, Cats, Gen, bookshops, cat-insert fic, crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laziestgirlintown/pseuds/laziestgirlintown
Summary: This cat knows, that if behind a door there is a very much larger than usual number of books, yet a much lesser than usual amount of hurry, and also a rather larger than average supply of tea, cocoa or wine, then if he finds a way through that door, he will be welcome inside.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Bernard Black & Manny Bianco
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

Most who know cats know: cats and closed doors are anathema.

Not all know that under certain circumstances, cats have their ways around this.

Here's a cat. He's a dark, velvet grey, his fur thick and soft. He's missing the tip of an ear, and the last two joints of his tail are broken. He has a grey nose and very long whiskers. When annoyed, he will somehow simultaneously raise his eyebrows and hood his yellow-green eyes, to let the world know he is Quite Annoyed. He knows how to live with a human, but at the moment there's no window being kept open for him, nights.

This cat has learned the knack of certain types of doors. This cat knows, that if behind a door there is a very much larger than usual number of books, yet a much lesser than usual amount of hurry, and also a rather larger than average supply of tea, cocoa or wine, then if he finds a way through that door, he will be welcome inside.

* *

This particular door is up two steps and to the left, so the cat can stay hidden from the street when he sits outside it and listens. Some nights it’s very loud in there, some nights it’s very quiet. If he hears steps inside approaching the front door, he disappears into the shadows. 

But tonight, when it’s very quiet, he finds a way through the door and walks among the shadows inside.

he shadows in this place are irregular, and he heads for the darker places, but twitches back when the floor gets sticky and nasty. He washes his paws thoroughly, biting at his claws to get all the badness out, then jumps up on the table above him. The table, too, is in darkness at this end, so probably no one sees him misstep as the morass of books piled upon it shifts and slides beneath him. He takes several really very graceful steps until he can stop, balanced, nothing moving under his footing.

He’s still mostly in darkness. Some distant light from the street struggles in through the unwashed windows, but a single lit lamp at the back of the shop makes an irregular sphere of warm light, beyond which everything must seem a book-filled gloom. At the centre of the sphere is a man dressed all in black, with his feet on a desk, the lamp illuminating the book in his hand, a bottle and glass of wine standing close by. He hasn’t looked up.

Very carefully, the cat walks closer. When he comes to the edge of the light, a book slides under his paw, and the man’s head jerks up, dark curls flailing as if woken from a peaceful slumber. The man stares at the cat. The cat takes a few steps closer and the man just keeps staring.

The cat leaps from the table to the desk and the man flinches, but then he leans forward and squints, frowning.

“Are you … a cat?” the man demands. His voice is angry, but it always is. He’s not angry at the cat, and so to answer, the cat walks forward and pushes his forehead against the man’s chin, purring.

“Ah,” the man says, not quite as angry. “Well, then.”

Very slowly, he lifts a hand and scratches the cat behind an ear. The cat purrs louder. The man’s frown softens a little.

“Well,” the man says again. He glances at the bottle. “Would … would you like a drink? No. No, cats don’t drink wine. Do cats drink wine?”

The cat puts a paw on the man’s leg where it’s propped on the desk.

“Right!” the man exclaims, but not loudly enough to startle. “Right. I remember this.” He shifts his chair out from the desk a bit, puts his feet back up, and the cat walks onto his legs. Walks a circle round his lap before lying down, sphinx-style. He half-closes his eyes as he starts purring again.

“Yes. And I … I keep reading, shall I?” the man says, slurring slightly, scratching a little more behind the cat’s ear, and the cat purrs a little louder. “Good. I can do that. Good.”

The man refills his glass and returns his attention to his book. He settles into his chair, and the cat settles into his lap.

A couple of pages later, the cat starts washing his paws, and then his fur. He washes for an entire chapter. After that, he curls up in a ball and purrs until he falls asleep.

The next morning - well, the next not-yet-afternoon - Manny finds Bernard on his hands and knees, sawing a hole in the bookshop door.

“Huh. Well. Bernard?” He doesn’t get an answer, but if he’d gotten one it would probably have been an insult, so that’s all right. Nevertheless, he presses his luck and asks the first question that comes to mind. “Are you sawing a hole in the door?”

“I am **_making_ **,” Bernard answers, contempt over not recognising the obvious saturating his voice, “a cat door.” The saw catches and twists and nearly has his thumb off for the fifth time that morning, and he curses.

“Oh, did you get a cat?” Manny asks and Bernard flies windmilling to his feet.

“You might help!” Bernard accuses and Manny blinks to find himself holding the rusty saw, belatedly relieved everyone survived the exchange.

“Of course,” he says, as it’s probably best for everyone’s continued use of life and limb. “So then, we do have a cat?”

“Just …” Bernard begins, grabbing a book from a table, “just, if you see a cat in here, and it’s very soft, and it has … ears, and paws, and, and …” He grabs a bottle of wine and crashes down into his chair. “And a tail! Then the cat is where it’s supposed to be. All right?!” He puts his feet up and starts reading, aggressively.

“Right,” Manny agrees, and gets working on the hole in the door, every now and again peering around it, hoping to see the cat.

* *

There’s another door, not that very far from that one.

There’s less opportunity to hide on the step here, even for a grey cat, but there are all the more hiding places inside.

The cat walks through a labyrinth of book piles, book shelves, overflowing tables towering with books, more book piles. At times he wonders who, besides a cat, could even make their way round without toppling everything.

Distant light comes through slightly less dirty windows, but the warmer light comes from the back of the shop, glimpsed now and then through the winding maze of books. There are usually voices back there, two voices, very comfortable and familiar with each other. Loving even when they bicker. Distinct even when affectionately quiet.

So far, the cat has stayed in the dark. He listens to them chat, argue, ramble, joke. A lot of the time, he listens to one of them reading to the other. He likes that. He’s heard a lot of books that way.

The thing that’s stopped him walking up to them is that they don’t smell entirely human.

They’re not cats, that’s a thing he’s certain of. But he doesn’t know what it is that they are. They smell of human a bit, but also of wings. Not wings of any birds he’d like to catch, that’s another thing he’s certain of. One of them smells a little of snake, which is both exciting and frightening. But above all that, they smell like something very else. Like a lightning strike, or as if the sun could reach down and touch your fur. Like mother’s milk tasted, or like taking that leap you have to make even though you don’t think you will, and then you’ve landed on all four paws and you’re safe.

So the cat stays in the dark. There are many comfortable and warm spots in this place, and he listens to them talking, and to one of them reading books to the other.

But tonight, there’s a filled saucer on the floor in a spot where he often sits. He sniffs it. It smells like cream. He touches it with his paw, then licks his paw. It tastes like cream. He doesn’t dare trust it, so he finds another place to sit. One where he can see them, if he peers round the overcrowded shelf.

They’re sitting in a large armchair or small sofa. The blond, fair one is reading to the red-haired, dark one, whose legs are draped across the other’s in such a way as to make an exemplary lap for the discerning cat, were one brave enough to seek it. The book is in Japanese, so the cat doesn’t follow the story, but he follows the cadence of the reader’s voice.

“What d’you reckon,” the dark one suddenly interrupts, and the fair one doesn’t mind. “A lot of ‘em say cats are my side’s, but I think it’s bollocks. They’re much to cleanly.”

Their glasses are somehow refilled and the fair one has a drink. “Now you mention it, my dear, I think cats are neither ours nor yours. They’re their own side.” They twinkle at the dark one. “Like us.”

The dark one grins and clinks their glasses together. “Like us, angel.”

“Would be nice if there were a cat here now, wouldn’t it?” angel says with a sigh.

“Well,” the dark one says. “Depends on what that cat wants. I mean if it’s a cat who likes his ears scratched, and a wide friendly lap to lie in, and who might want to listen to a story while someone softly brushes his fur, then maybe we could put together a temptation sufficiently satisf-”

The cat jumps up and starts kneading their lap.

The fair one bows slightly, without upsetting the lap, and says happily: “O cat!”

“Hello,” the dark one says gently and strokes his forehead. The cat sees their eyes up close for the first time. They’re nearly the eyes of a cat, but they don’t carry any threat or challenge, only contentedness.

The cat deigns to lie down, and the dark one produces a brush from somewhere. As the fair one resumes reading, the cat allows his thick fur to be brushed, rewarding the effort with a low, steady purr.

“‘S it too early to ask his name?” the dark one asks some time later, when the cat lies sprawled across their laps, relaxed and listening to the fair one reading from a collection of Persian poems.

“I’m sure he’ll tell us when he’s ready,” the fair one says and strokes the cat’s soft, newly brushed neck. He looks up at them and their blue eyes blink. “Oh.” They glance at their friend. “He doesn’t have one at the moment.”

The not-quite-cat-eyes look at the cat, concerned. “Would you like one?”

The cat waves his tail, once.

“Don’t you worry,” the fair one says, patting his hip. “We’ll find you one. Won’t we, Crowley?”

“‘Course we will, angel. We will,” they promise the cat. “For as long as you’d like.”

The cat stretches and lays his head back down.


	2. Calling Your Cat Funny Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a fluffy cat in possession of fuzzy paws, must be in want of a lap. That’s why it’s good to have a selection of booksellers to choose from.

"Crowley, have you seen Sir Pounce-a-lot?" 

Aziraphale came strolling into the closed bookshop from the back room, a worn, green book under one arm. Crowley lay sprawled in a window seat, basking in the afternoon sun, and couldn’t quite be bothered to lift their face away from the warmth.

"I thought you named him Kat Marlowe?"

"I did. Sir Pounce-a-lot is his title, obviously."

"Obviously," Crowley agreed.

Sun-sated and comfortable, the demon didn't see a point to mentioning that when the angel wasn’t listening, the cat’s names were alternately Lord Smoke of the Cat Vere de Veres, or Captain Snuggles. Stalks-by-Night, Doc McCat and Wee Mad Arthur were up for impending consideration. 

"Haven't seen him in a bit, actually. Why?"

The angel waved their book about vaguely.

"Oh, I just thought I'd sit and read for a while and wondered if he might like to join me. Oh, my dear!” 

Aziraphale hurried over, alarmed at the way shadows flooded the demon’s face. “Of course you may join me too, if you like! It’s just that I’d found you, but I hadn’t found him.” They sat down next to their partner, taking their hand. “Would you like to sit and read for a while, my dear?”

Crowley shrugged, knowing the angel wasn’t buying it for a moment. “Wouldn’t mind. Uh, should we find him, though? He’d hate to miss it.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale said, cocking their head to listen, eyes going distant. Then they flew up at once, Crowley following automatically.

“What? Angel, what? Is Kat in danger?”

“Would you give me a lift, my dear? Right now?”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley said, both of them already nearly at the door. “Where are we going?”

“Bloomsbury.”

* *

“Here.”

At the last of the angel’s terse directions, the Bentley snapped to a stop, cutting off Queen’s “Cool Cat”. Crowley hurried after Aziraphale, who was already marching determinedly up to an unassuming, slightly dingy bookshop.

“D'you need me to look scary, angel?” the demon asked, catching up and matching their partner’s pace, which stumbled a bit at the question.

“Hm? Oh, um. Er, if you want to, dear?”

Aziraphale squared their shoulders again and pushed the door open, striding in righteously. Crowley took up post a few steps inside, putting their mean face on and looking for points of threat. None (other than the angel) immediately presented themselves.

*

The bell above the door jingled. Bernard, who was nearly certain he’d turned both the lock and the Closed-sign, prepared to witheringly turn out whoever dared disturb, until he saw who it was.

The cat in his lap cracked an eye open, but couldn’t see the need for lifting his head. He waved his tail gracefully and made certain his soft purr was heard by all concerned.

“Fell,” Bernard greeted grudgingly. For the time being he ignored the scowling, lanky fellow hovering behind his unwelcome guest.

“Black,” Aziraphale said with admirable restraint, gaze intent as they looked around.

“You’ll forgive me not standing up. He's resting his nose on his paws! I’m quite overruled in the matter.” Bernard indicated the cat with the book he was holding. He really wanted to get back to the book, but didn’t feel it wise to ignore this particular visitor to that degree.

“That is, in fact, why I‘m here,” Aziraphale said, walking closer. Their stern face and posture softened slightly. “Although I must say, Cat Marlowe seems, at a glance, rather more at ease than I might perhaps have feared. And - ” they nearly bit their lip as their heart swelled - “he _is_ resting his nose on his paws!”

The cat did his extremely clever falling-over-while-already-lying-down move, which invited human-shaped beings to rub his sleep-warm chest or tummy.

“His name is Mister Floofy,” Bernard objected, obligingly stroking the warm, soft tummy fluff. “Although I’ll give you this, Fell, Kat Marlowe is a good cat name. I presume you spell it with a K?”

“Of course not! With all due respect to Master Marlowe, one cannot go about misspelling ‘cat’. There would be barbary; chaos!”

Crowley didn’t comment.

“And as you can see,” Bernard went on, “Mister Floofy is perfectly fine.”

Aziraphale started sniffing the air and looking around, keen as a conscientious health inspector.

“It’s better,” Bernard muttered, not quite daring to look away.

While the angel closely studied the state of the bookshop, Crowley and Bernard tried to study each other covertly while seeming not to do so. They were neither of them very good at it, but they both thought they were, so in a way they were entirely successful.

Crowley sauntered forward, with a gait meant to look ruthless and dangerous, to verify for himself that Prince of the Four Paws did, indeed, seem in fine fettle. The cat opened his eyes when Crowley reached the desk, and having shown he approved, he peacefully closed them again.

Both Crowley and Bernard scowled a little less, and Bernard’s attention started slipping back towards his book while Aziraphale’s was focused on scrutinising the premises.

Crowley decided to take a peek at the Irishman’s conscience, for a clue as to why Aziraphale had brought them here. Sure, the place was dusty, and the amount of books that could topple over a customer or a cat at any moment would stagger someone who hadn’t been inside A Z Fell’s & Co, and the bookseller had chosen a bottle of wine over customers in the early afternoon, but the same could be said for -

Crowley was plunged into a glimpse of the bookshop at its worst, with books not moulding but disintegrating, most surfaces toxic to the touch, urban wildlife prowling the aisles and lying dead on the floor. The glimpse was followed by the bright, terrifying light of angelic wrath, and the demon blinked to come back to the precarious, but cosy, present bookshop.

Crowley was just calming down when there was a yell which startled angel and demon alike. (The human and the cat were used to it.)

“Oh! Sorry,” Manny said, slowly inching back towards the curtain to the kitchen. “It’s just I thought we were closed, or I wouldn’t have - I do work here, I don’t just shower here, which is to say -”

He looked down to check his bathrobe hadn’t opened, then jumped and squeaked as Aziraphale was suddenly right beside him, smiling in a terrifyingly pleasant way.

“Mister Bianco, isn’t it?”

“Er, hello?” Manny frowned, confused at feeling frightened and comforted at the same time.

“Would you say this bookstore is currently a safe environment for a cat?”

“Oh.” He tried to pull himself together as much as one could be expected to while dressed in a threadbare bathrobe and a towel around one’s hair, unexpectedly facing a being beyond comprehension. “Are you the, um … You’re the …” The visitor didn’t complete the sentence for him, so he went slightly straighter to the point. “Are you concerned about the Potato?”

“He is _not_ a potato, you hobbit!” Bernard called, but Aziraphale gasped.

“Do you refer to when he’s rolled up in a ball? He _does_ rather look like a fuzzy potato when he does that!”

“The fuzziest!” Manny exclaimed.

“Yeah, I’ll go with them on this,” Crowley said, adding yet another name to their own list even as Bernard fumed quietly.

“And, well,” Manny went on, “I can see how you’d be worried, but it has gotten quite a lot better.”

“As I told you,” Bernard muttered.

“It’s not the cleanest space in the world, but there aren’t rabid molluscs or flesh-eating dust or labrador-sized spiders anymore.” Manny lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I think something happened a while back that put the fear of -”

“And he chose me!” Bernard yelled, soothing hand making sure he didn’t startle the cat. “Mister Floofy came in here and he chose me. I’ll sit and make a lap for him any time he wants me to. I’ll even suffer Manny to clean up the shop. Within reason.”

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale and the angel sighed, nodding. “Well. I suppose there were a few times when I was doing things that were not sitting down. I can hardly blame him for finding someone who was.” They grew stern again. “But you’re _not_ to smoke while he’s here! His lungs are tiny. Smaller than one of your packs of cigarettes.”

Crowley made the skin on the inside of Bernard’s index and middle fingers scorch fiercely for an instant - on the hand that wasn’t stroking Captain Snuggles, of course - and he tossed his book in the air from the sudden pain.

“All right, _fine_ ,” he hissed. “Manny, fetch me back my book. I don’t want to disturb _Mister Floofy_ . Who is _very comfortable_.”

Crowley turned to Manny. “What other names do you have for him besides Potato?” When the store clerk’s face lit up, the demon suggested: “Is there more of … a better wine than _that_ … that we might partake of whilst sharing?” The demon turned to their partner while Manny ran for bottles and glasses. “Angel, I’ve a name or two to tell you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale didn’t quite dare to be open about his admiration for Christopher ‘Kit’ Marlowe back in the Elizabethan day, so he’s making up for it.  
> One of the books Aziraphale has read to Crowley is Emily of New Moon by L M Montgomery. Crowley liked it, and remembered the description of the Tansy Patch’s aristocratic Maltese cat. Crowley is also a fan of Steve McQueen. Wee Mad Arthur is, of course, a bow to Sir Pterry (and by an extraordinary coincidence, Arthur is the name of the wee mad cat in my lap as I write this).


End file.
